Elrond walks beneath the pines, feels Imladris shape itself gladly about his will. Thirteen generations of unhandy boys have run here, oblivious to it – the order of things. Unhandy boys, awkward with the strangeness of their kind that does not fit into this world – given to another end than Arda.

And now he has another child, so many many sons his brother's heir – Estel. Elven word, but what Elf could bear the name? 'Tis not for Elves, but it belongs to those given to death.

For they are not meshed within the Song – not the mortal Speakers, so short-lived for so terribly, terribly free of things...

He can see the way the world is turning – its crossroads grow few. Some there are still, and one hovers like a sign over the boy. Where shall it lead, and which way shall he go? Or will there be a new way that he cannot see?

For the eyes of the elven Wise do not see what lies beyond the Song. There Men roam freely, wear themselves out of the world early. Yet from such travels, strange fruit they reap and give – like the fearful new light upon one way of the crossroad that hovers over his Arwen.

Elros had that same light about him, the day he turned to Elrond, said, “We were born for such adventures as change worlds. Come with me, brother,” and held out his hand, all wreathed about with an unworldly glamour only an Elf could see.

Too late, the invitation – they had each already chosen.

O my brother, Elrond prays, what do the Wise among Men see, to guide us in these darkening days?

As little as Elves, no doubt, alas, for the Wise see only what must be, if they are wise.

If they are wise, if they are wise.

The Wise see only what must be, and otherwise... trust that choice is gift.

~~~

The Silmarillion tells us that from the elven perspective, Men (and presumably all mortal speakers) were given "strange gifts", namely freedom from fate, accompanied by its necessary ontological 'concomitant' gift, death.